


bang it up inside

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bootjob, Canon Compliant, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27247393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: And below, Francis shifted the sole of his boot up to sit against James’ prick where it slept soft in his trousers and rubbed.A long dinner, an unusual overture, and a tumultuous resolution.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 15
Kudos: 99





	bang it up inside

James might have had a perfectly nice Sunday dinner, were it not for the boot.

It was sometime in the spring - no, it would not do to become muddled. They may have been in a place where the traditional signals of time were upended, but they could still keep a respectable calendar. So: it was the second Sunday in April. The command meeting was over, and they were all crowded into the wardroom on Terror for the meal that was to follow. Lieutenants and Doctors, stewards to serve, himself and Sir John and Francis. 

Francis. That was the root of it, of course. He was seated directly across from James, looking...well, less vitriolic than he did some days. Almost bored - and well he could be, for this particular dinner was running on quite long. James himself had given the table an account of his impromptu swim in the Mersey earlier (with Francis merely gazing sourly upon him rather than audibly griping), but now he was feeling pleasantly blank, content to sit in the ebb and flow of the others’ conversation and savor the last of his roast ham and potatoes - uncommonly good, though perhaps that was the wine speaking. All this to say, the evening was going quite nicely for James.

Francis, evidently, was not quite so pleased. James had taken his look of apparent dullness for a good sign, an indication that perhaps he would be spared a direct clash with the Captain of his sister-ship. He had failed to consider that with boredom often comes an itch to remedy it - a drive to do something interesting, no matter how ill-advised. He came to the knowledge of such an inclination rather suddenly, however, near the end of the dinner. 

Sir John was sharing his theory on the imminent breakup of the pack with the room at large when Francis caught James’ eye. His gaze was impassive, revealing no specific thought or emotion - yet there was a weight to it, a sort of ominous significance. Something was about to happen.

Beneath the table, James felt the knock of Francis’ boot against his own - an uncharacteristically comradely touch, he thought, but then the boot began to travel upwards. 

Dinner dragged on as it had for the past however-long as Francis’ boot inched up, up, up James’ leg. Past his knee, now, rested heel-first on the chair’s seat by the feel of it. Hardened leather tread sitting exactly parallel to James’...

Ah.

The officers about them gave no indication as to anything’s being amiss. Hodgson was giving an impromptu lesson on philosophy to Gore, who regarded his lecturer with unwavering pleasantness. Sir John (and James blushed to see his face, so oblivious to goings-on that would give him fits to know of) was bestowing a fatherly smile upon Irving as the latter regaled all with his insights on this morning’s Divine Service. Dr MacDonald sipped at his wine, Dundy pushed a bit of potato ‘round his plate to catch the gravy, Little surveyed the painted blue dinner-service with aimless eyes. And below, Francis shifted the sole of his boot up to sit against James’ prick where it slept soft in his trousers and _rubbed_.

James could scarce hold back a gasp. He found himself gripping his fork rather tightly, staring hard at Francis quite without knowing it as the color rose in his cheeks. Incorrigible, truly. No doubt he would love to see James make a disgrace of himself, spend in his trousers in front of the whole wardroom, have to walk back to Erebus with a wet and tacky patch in his drawers. Well, he would not— And here, he briefly left off thinking, for the little zings of pleasure from the steady movement of Francis’ boot were such as made rational thought fuzzy and hard to grasp at. He would not, he thought as he rejoined himself, be so easily undone. He would make no sound, no move out of the ordinary, and he would hold back spending until dinner was ended. Then he would ask Francis to stay behind for a word about magnetism - how that request would smart, how Francis’ face would twitch to hear it - and come apart on his terms, with the full use of his own body and Francis’. He would not be brought off in this sordid, humiliating manner.

Francis rubbed the very tip of his boot-sole just under the head of James’ prick, and James felt a traitorous little pulse of hot fluid leak into his smalls. _Christ_.

He was keenly aware of the weight of Francis’ gaze on him like a challenge, like a gut punch, as he returned to the dregs of his meal and tried not to act like a man whose direct superior and de facto adversary was currently cleaning his boot-sole on the crotch of his trousers. It was difficult indeed (made worse, in fact, by the mere knowledge of Francis’ piercing regard; he would see if James faltered, would be sure to seize upon it mercilessly, and that somehow made James’ arousal quicken and burn yet hotter). But it must be attempted. He put his head down resolutely and picked at his food with the steadiest hand he could muster. It might as well have been dust, for all he tasted it.

He passed long minutes in this state of suspended animation - sensation split between the blood in his face and the blood in his cock - before the inevitable occurred. Francis’ voice, with the same old dull core and distempered edge as he always had in addressing James, cut easily through the scrape of cutlery and the drip of half-finished conversation to deliver this touching inquiry: “Are you quite well, Fitzjames? Only it’s been quite some minutes since we’ve heard about the Mersey, and you’ve yet to grace us with another tale.”

James felt his face heat further, if possible, and willed his blood to relocate. Somewhere about his shoulders would do nicely, not too high nor too low. It was no use - he was certain his face was quite red and his prick quite stiff (twitching against his thigh, crying out for more contact as Francis’ boot moved over the hard line of it almost casually). It was only with difficulty that he summoned the presence of mind to reply. “No more tales for tonight, I should think. I find myself—” A particularly hard press over his shaft, the wooden heel of Francis’ boot grazing over his bollocks in a way that ought not be so exciting. “Ahem. Quite exhausted from the day. I am sorry to disappoint you, Francis, for I know how you enjoy my stories,” he added, hoping viciously to see some flush of anger on Francis’ face to match the flush of desire on his own. No such luck - Francis’ lip only twitched up minutely, almost a sneer, not quite. His eyes remained fixed on James quite dully, and his boot kept working over James’ cock.

Francis’ jab, however, had attracted the attention of the room. “You do look awfully red, James,” Dundy ventured from down the table. “Are you quite certain you’re well?”

Damn. James fumbled for a response - feeling rather uncharitably towards his dear friend in that moment - as Francis shifted position to rub the side of his leather-clad foot over James’ prick, good Christ, good Christ. “Only a bit of a headache,” he choked out.

“Why did you not mention it sooner?” Sir John, now. Wonderful. “Here we all have been, sitting around with clean plates and going on without a care in the world. We ought to be returning to Erebus so that James can get to bed, hmm?”

“Oh—” Perfect. Francis’ mouth twisted in the familiar disdainful line that appeared whenever Sir John treated him this way ( _l_ _ike a favored pet,_ Francis had spit into his ear once when he was three fingers into James). “Do not rush on my account. In any case I shall have to delay us a few moments - I should like to stay behind and consult with Francis on _my_ magnetic readings.” This indeed had the desired effect - Francis’ hands clenched on themselves minutely, and his foot jabbed firm against James’ groin. 

Sir John smiled indulgently. “Of course, James.” He motioned for the rest of the officers to follow him out into the Great Cabin, and - after a long and shuffling interlude - James was left alone with Francis. Francis’ curled lip. Francis’ keen eyes. Francis’ steady boot.

The moment the door slid shut, Francis began to move. Seeming in no hurry, he withdrew his foot - James’ hips jerked involuntarily to follow it - and shifted his legs about him to stand. 

James was a bit less inclined to tarry. “Francis,” he hissed, low and hot. He glared at the man freely, perhaps a bit wildly, in the absence of prying eyes. “Come here and see to this, goddamn you.”

“Hmm.” Francis was rounding the table now, making no move to speed his idling step. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“You don’t _think—_ ” James sputtered, fists clenching, cock pulsing uselessly. Really! He made to stand, to see to it that Francis lie in the bed he had made - he would press his body against Francis’, get a leg between his thighs, perhaps bite at his ear or his neck - but Francis motioned him down, and for some godforsaken reason he obeyed. 

“Get yourself out,” Francis said with a jerk of his chin. His eyes were cold on James’ obscene form. James glared back at him, but opened his flies and drew his prick out of his dampened drawers. He felt as if he were about to fly apart into a million tiny pieces under Francis’ gaze, as rough and unyielding as any hand. 

Francis’ lip curled up further - quite a sneer, now - when James made no further move but sat there absurd with his cockstand jutting red and tall from his lap. “You know what to do with it, go on.” The instruction was a shame and a relief at once - James wanted to hide his face even as he spit in his hand and began to tug at his prick. And oh, but it was good. Mortifying, yes, and with a savor of unfairness - Francis would not do the job himself, after what he had put James through the past quarter-hour - but it was skin on skin, and he had been so frayed and unpicked by Francis’ rough attentions that he met it with a desperate strength of feeling. He could not hold back a gasp as he frigged himself for Francis’ stony gaze - it was embarrassingly pleasurable, working his own prick over like this, the sticky drag and slide of palm over shaft, thumb over head, fingers under stones. In no time at all he was rushing up to his crisis, fluid leaking steadily from his prickhead. 

“Francis,” he gasped lowly, “please. Please, please.” He knew not what answer to expect, and indeed, he got no verbal reply. However, he saw— Francis’ face flickered, his eyes lit. The impassive mask he had been wearing slipped, letting James see the depth of want within. Want for James, for what James was doing. With his eyes locked on Francis’, with the knowledge of how he was affected, James shuddered and tensed and came off in his own fist in a rush of hot seed.

“Good,” Francis murmured, just barely audible. He had begun rubbing the front of his trousers, apparently seeing no point in continuing the illusion that he was unmoved by the scene before him. James had been feeling a vague post-orgasmic repulsion as his spend cooled on his palm, but this single word from Francis sparked a renewal of interest within him, a pathetic little urge to earn that praise again. 

He scrubbed at his hand with a kerchief and slid out of his chair to kneel at Francis’ feet. Tried not to waver as he clutched at the back of Francis’ thigh. Spoke, hushed and slack, “Go on then.”

Francis hissed a curse. For a moment he was still, seeming somewhat thrown off course - then he appeared to regain himself and fumbled to loose his flies. 

As soon as Francis’ prick came free, half-hard and wonderfully fat and rosy, James was gathering it into his mouth with memorized familiarity. The taste of him, the slight stretch of James’ jaw to take him in, the weight on his tongue - he knew all of these from nights much like this one. Late in the evening, officers elsewhere, they would fly at each other with a passion halfway-violent. It felt like as much of an emotional release as their arguments - whether it was more or perhaps less constructive, James could not say. Could not say much of anything at the moment, with Francis’ yard working itself down his throat by torturous degrees.

Francis gave a pleased grunt as he seated himself fully. “That’s right,” he muttered. James felt something settle in himself to hear the words. 

Francis’ hand came up into his hair, holding him in place. James swallowed around Francis through the unseemly cough that was fighting to assert itself, and when the tears started to stream down his face he felt it like a cleansing. “Oh— Put that damn— mouth of yours to some good use, hmm?”

The only response James could make was to press the flat of his tongue to the veined underside of Francis’ cock and suck. By the choked hitching noise Francis made above him, and the way his hand twisted in his hair, he thought his message had been well received.

“Been thinking about this all through dinner,” Francis growled, drawing out by degrees only to drive back in. “That damned story.” James rolled his eyes minutely, earning a sharp thrust from Francis that had him nearly choking again. “Couldn’t wait to shut you up.”

James would have gasped at this, if his mouth had been free; it most pointedly was not, and so he was confined to a sharp inhale through his nose. “Listen to you,” Francis whispered. His thumb came down to trace James’ cheek almost tenderly - almost, but for the fact he was seeking the outline of his own cock within James’ mouth. _Christ_. “So quiet for me. Just—” Rolling his hips rhythmically into James’ mouth, stumbling through his words distractedly, leaking seed onto James’ tongue, _close_. “Just a mouth for my prick, fucking hell, James—”

James groaned at the use of his given name, could not hold back the sound, and this vibration was perhaps what finished Francis off. He drew his hand back from James’ head to clutch the side of the table as he came, emptying himself down James’ throat. Another cleansing, a filthy little benediction. The only recognition of good work that James was like to get from Francis. 

James gasped for breath when he pulled away, swallowing what was left of Francis and trying not to cough. He saw only a flash of Francis’ flushed face and widened eyes as he tucked himself away and made swiftly for the door - then he was sitting alone on the boards with his aching jaw and his aching knees and his throat that would soon be aching. 

_James_. The word played over and again in his mind, repeating like a tune on the wretched little hand-organ. _James, James, James,_ lengthened and softened and lilting. A bitter thing indeed, to be given your dearest wish by an insincere accident. Francis would not call him by his first name in friendship, or even in a gentler passion - he would get only Francis’ hand pulling out his hair, Francis’ prick thrusting into his throat, and Francis’ wrenching slips of the tongue. He would get to be _James_ , and the next minute he would be nobody.

With a sigh melancholy and frustrated in equal measure - for why should it matter at all how Francis saw him, when it was long clear how wrong James had been about the man’s supposed greatness, how disinterested and how joyless he truly was? yet it did, and James did not think he could be cured of it - he stood on shaking legs and went to join the officers. He wished suddenly and fiercely to be back on his own ship, in his own cramped bunk with a kind word from Bridgens; so far away as to be unable to hear Francis calling him anything at all. 


End file.
